Upon arriving at the club, I discovered a few other cool things about the joint. For starters, it's the first place I can remember playing where the load in door is only about 20 feet to the stage. Then you get a look at what has to be the sharpest decorated bar in the city, complete with a big assed Buddha statue right in the middle of the back wall. Then we got what was easily the most thorough sound check I've ever been a part of (thanks Alex). The other bands started showing up, and we chatted up the guys from Jimmy Flame and the Sexxy Boys (by the way - killer 7 inch guys!), discussing mutual friends. So what to do for the next few hours?
We decided (except Dan) to head across the street to Piecora's Pizza, where we gorged ourselves silly. It was funny how everyone in the joint knew exactly who we were and what we were doing. It wasn't hard to suss out - our name was on the club marquee across the street, and we were all in leather jackets. Our waiter turned out to be a guy that's been in a shitload of local bands over the years, and told us he'd try to stop by later. The Dragstrip Riot guys filed in shortly after. We shot the shit for a while, paid our tab, and split.
As I live 5 blocks away, I decided that instead of just hanging around the club I'd head home for some peace and quiet. I'd been feeling a little wiped out from a minor case of the crud I'd picked up from Dan the night we posted flyers. A little mellow time was just what the doctor ordered, though I still had some nasty shit rolling around my lungs.
I returned at the start of Dragstrip Riot's set, which I enjoy more each time I hear it. There was a nice crowd building at this time, with more arriving at regular intervals. It seemed our concerns about getting anyone out late on a Wednesday were unfounded.
We slammed into our set, powering into 20 some odd tunes. By the third song, my voice had decided to go home early. Apparently the crud in my lungs was giving my voice wedgies, stealing it's lunch money, and callously bullying it into submission. I labored through the rest of the set, sounding like the bastard spawn of Joey Ramone and Tom Waits. Somehow, I stayed in key - by the skin of my teeth. I managed to survive by focusing on my breathing (a helpful tip I'd picked up years earlier) and letting the lunatics in front of the stage belt out a few choruses into the mic.
Oddly enough, at the end of the set I felt better than I did at the beginning. Somehow, I had worked the crud out of my battered lungs. Unfortunately, now I was wired, yet exhausted. We said our goodbyes, and took off.
I look forward to playing Chop Suey again sometime in the future - hopefully on a weekend where my lungs decide to cooperate.